


Under a Spell

by louicorn



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:11:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louicorn/pseuds/louicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's at that diner with the wobbly tables and the crooked blinds... It's at that diner with the pretty blonde girl in a pretty white apron, a notepad tucked into her pocket, a pencil resting behind her ear, buried in those wispy strands of golden hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under a Spell

It's at that diner with the wobbly tables and the crooked blinds. It's at that diner with the stuffy air and the deep orange glow in the late afternoons. The warm summer light rains onto my food, and it makes the greasy bacon burger even less appetizing than it was. It's at that diner with the red cushioned seats, the red leather cracked and scratched.

It's at that diner with the pretty blonde girl in a pretty white apron, a notepad tucked into her pocket, a pencil resting behind her ear, buried in those wispy strands of golden hair. She has this chipper smile, and it's all I need to start my day. My pancakes lie half-eaten and neglected because her smile is better than any breakfast I could have asked for.

I smile back at her sometimes, just hoping to see that twinkle in her wonderful blue eyes.

And the way she speaks… _What may I get for you this morning?_ That beautiful voice keeps ringing in my ears, days and days on end.

And I sip on my coffee, flipping through my newspaper, waiting for her to glide by and throw a casual wink my way.

I've never spoken to her and never will. But those strands of her hair that have come loose from her messy bun. They're the lightest, softest things in the world. At least, I imagine them to be.

* * *

Today, I just get a croissant and a coffee and sit at the corner of the diner. It's cooler there near the windows, where the chill radiates from the glass, grey and scratched from years of existence. I've heard somewhere that glass really is a liquid, just a very, very viscous one. It takes years to even notice how the glass slowly drips downward and downward.

But everything is irrelevant when she swings by, as casual as always, to check on how I'm doing. I wonder if she actually cares or if it's just her job.

As I sip on my coffee, I give her a thumbs up and a smile. _I'm doing great._

Her hair's down today, so it trickles down her neck, still light like a hummingbird's feather, wispy like its chirp. She grins back at me. "Do you need anything else?" she asks. Her top lip is so thin it almost disappears when she smiles. But I can still see that line of pink. Pinker than usual.

I think about her question for a moment. Then I shake my head. _No, thank you_.

She seems unconvinced as she bobs her head to the side, her sharp eyes glinting with mischievousness. "Are you sure?" It's the first time our conversation has ever lasted longer than a simple question, but I soon forget that when that cascade of blonde slips from her neck and settles on her left shoulder. There's a soft purple mark on her neck.

My eyes fall on it immediately, and I can't take them away. But then she raises her hand to her neck, so I force myself to look away. _Yeah, I'm sure_. A nod.

"Alright, then." And she disappears to serve someone else.

I look out the window. I see the first bits of snow.

* * *

If she is magic, then I'm under a deep, dark spell.

And since she _is_ magic, I _am_ under a deep, dark spell.

A spell I have been under for so long, I can't even tell you when it started.

* * *

One morning, when the fall air smells too much like grass and rustles too briefly through the hairs on my arm, I sit down at my spot, and she's not here. I look around, just to make sure. She's not here. As I make my order, I can't help but notice how this new waitress wears her white apron too low, tucks her notepad in the wrong pocket, and can barely balance the pencil behind her ear.

She scribbles my order down, slowly, like it's not her job. She doesn't miss the question in my eyes. "She's not here," she tells me.

I raise my eyebrows. _Go on_.

"Brittany quit. She's going to be a _dancer_ in New York," she chuckles.

Brittany… It was never a beautiful name until now. And a dancer. Of course. I've always wondered what a girl like her was doing at a diner like this.

* * *

I still can't stop going to that diner.

Call it habit. Or call it…wishful thinking. Wishful thinking that I'll see Brittany again in her perfect white apron and her perfect blonde bun of hair.

It's almost been a month. A month of subpar aprons, subpar scribbling on a notepad. I have to stop.

I know.

* * *

It's the last time, I swear. It's the last time I will naively return to this worn-out diner. A last leap of faith. Maybe Brittany will be here this time.

She's not.

* * *

The days seem shorter now as I stare out my window. It's nothing like the windows at the diner. It's clear and smooth, and there's no blurred reflection of Brittany.

* * *

The first speck of snow lands on the tip of my nose. Gently and swiftly like a brief breeze. Like a whisper. Like luscious blonde hair.

Another few droplets of snow cling to my velvet coat. I shake them off before I walk into the diner. It warms my heart, gives me a sense of normalcy, to see that my usual corner table is still empty, wobbly, and undesired as always. I slip into my seat, place my coat to the side, and hold my palm up to the scratched, cold glass of the window. I'm waiting to see the outline of my hand, my knobby fingers.

But I'm interrupted.

"What may I get for you this morning?" The tone's too light and playful.

I lift my head. There's no perfect white apron, no perfect bun, no perfect pencil perched perfectly on her ear. There's just her. Standing right there in a long, black coat. Hair down, blue eyes cold like the winter, pink cheeks, even pinker lips.

I grin at her.

"The usual, then?" she asks, that smirk too irresistible for her own good.

I shake my head. _No_.

"Oh?" She fakes a surprised face, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. "What would you like then?"

Smiling, I point at her, her chest, her heart.

The grin fades from her face as she follows the invisible path my finger has created. She blinks several times, then she looks back at me.

I stretch my arm even more until I graze her shirt. I feel her heart thumping madly against the tip of my finger.

She looks down at my hand and bites her lip. Her pink, pink lip. Then she covers my hand with her own.

I take the chance to join our fingers. They slide through each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then I pull her toward me, and I kiss her.

* * *

_Why did you come back?_ I write on the napkin. I slide it over to her.

Brittany takes a look at it and grins. "It was about time. It started snowing today."

I smile as I scribble the next words. _How was New York?_

"Great. Just missing a certain diner with a certain table and a certain guest."

I blush a little as I write something else, but Brittany holds my hand still. "What's your name?" she asks.

I grin, moving my pen. _Santana_.

"San-tan-a?" she asks, just to confirm the pronunciation. It's perfect.

I nod.

"Santana," she says again. The words linger thoughtfully on her lips.

_And you're Brittany_ , I write.

She smiles. "And I'm Brittany."

We look at each other like we just discovered the biggest secret. Almost as big as Brittany's giggles are cute.

"What took you so long, San-tan-a?"

I cock my head.

"To kiss me."

_It's hard for me to approach people_.

Brittany frowns at my response. "How could that possibly be true? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?"

I can't tell if she's mocking me because the reason is pretty damn obvious. But then she's still waiting for an answer, genuinely confused.

_I can't speak, Brittany._

She twists her lips as she reads what I wrote.

Once.

Then twice.

Then again.

"But I'll bet you have the most beautiful voice."


End file.
